The Person for Whom
Is Written Will Know It
Though your husband no
hears that dead man's voice in his sleep
every year like clockwork his memory
scatters its slow seed through your terrain.
Forget the warnings these
years have brought
you, that circle of men in orbit around whatever
it was they thought you offered. You have all
paid hell, I am certain.
Wide-mouthed in wonder,
the observation of your survival
has been recorded by those whose money
rests safely on fast horses;
your well orchestrated
was not lost to those who were watching.
Unscathed and wiser for the experience
the perfected art of forgiveness.
And what now, woman?
The slow lob of poetry navigates
its performance through the
silent auditoriums of night.
What now to be discovered
on love's timeless battlefields?
Perhaps a newer moon?
A younger nebula with fresher skin?
View, 3_1 (Fall 1998)